I've talked before about my good friend Vespa's two adorable offspring, we'll call them E & V. They're articulate, mild mannered, funny and good looking. All of the qualities you want to see in a child rolled up into two perfect blondeheaded bundles. (It's true, I don't have to put up with tantrums, backtalk or poop-- three of the benes of being the cool auntie and not the mommy). So, to me, they're perfect.
These are the kinds of kids you can bring to a grown-up party, and feel fairly confident that all will be well, which is exactly where we found them this past Saturday, in our very own backyard. While the grown ups swilled wine and made merry, E & V easily entertained themselves, and the rest of us, for hours.
As the night wore on, I found myself wedged between the two of them in the hammock. They're both at the age-- 2 1/2 and 4-- where the inquiry "why" is the question of the moment. As we rocked in the hammock, looking up at the massive tree we've been blessed with, E had many reasons to ask why. "Why is that tree so big?" "Why is the branch like that?" "Why is there a hole in the tree?" I told him a wee little harmless tale about Tree Gnomes, and watched his face light up in wonder. It was delightful. A few beats passed, and then he said: "Let's just be here."
It was one of the purest things I had ever heard anyone uttter. Of course, in a flash, he was up, off of the hammock, and in search of a misplaced toy; and the spell was broken. But that almost made it better. He said it, and meant it, minus any sort of pretend calm that would usually follow such an utterance had it come from the lips of an adult.
Let's just be here. And we were.
